A kick in the butt
by hobgoblin123
Summary: A thwarthed threesome, a fuming priest and lots of regrets: not the best way to bed your man. I know this summary sucks, but please give it a try. /


**Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire Trilogy**

**A kick in the butt**

Gerald grinned into his wine glass, and only centuries of exercising his self-control prevented him from succumbing to an undignified giggle, something that hadn't happened to him since the long gone days of his childhood. If he pushed the matter a little bit further Damien might actually burst into flames of wrath. But it served the priest right: why had his former brother in arms been so jarringly passive on Black Ridge Pass, letting him wander off into his third chance without resistance?

He had arranged his unexpected resurrection from the dead so painstakingly for Vryce's benefit, had even molded his new, petite appearance to the priest's taste, but much to the adept's dismay Damien had done the unexpected again and had let him go to start a new life, though unmistakably with a bleeding heart. To his horror Gerald had to fight the mighty temptation to swing his hips seductively, a desperate last-minute attempt to get the stubborn priest to change his mind, but too much was too much.

Gerald graced the tipsy couple sharing their table at the Black Knight and without a sliver of doubt in search of the missing partner for a threesome with a radiant smile and watched Vryce from the corner of his eyes. The priest's lips were pressed into a thin line of anger, and his ears glowed burning red, in stark contrast to the white knuckles of those calloused hands that had saved Gerald from danger on more occasions that he could count. Now said hands were clenching and unfolding around his glass of ale in a rather intimidating manner, and briefly Gerald mused if Vryce imagined his fingers closing around a bejeweled throat.

"Don't you think we should continue our little celebration in a more private surrounding, sweetheart?" cooed the blonde woman, and Gerald wondered if another one of those vulgar, stupid smiles would finally succeed in cracking the layers of paint on her doll's face. When she leaned forwards and placed her hand suggestively on Gerald's thighs her voluptuous breasts threatened to jump out of their scanty covering, and it took the adept some effort to suppress a revolted shudder.

Chubby, bold as brass and dumb as a loaf of bread, not quite his usual taste. The grey haired, potbellied harebrain in her tow, at least twenty years her senior, hadn't uttered more than five intelligible words after the initial introduction, evidently content to leave the hunt to his female partner. Considering the amount of nuwhisky that was running down his throat with astonishing speed he wouldn't be able to see to her needs tonight, anyway. Maybe that was part of the problem, but Gerald had no intention of filling the gap.

Some pleasant experiments had satisfactorily proved that all his bodily functions had properly resumed their work; his reactions had been a bit slow at first from the lack of practice, but some erotic daydreams of Vryce and himself indulging into certain activities had remedied the problem in a heartbeat. Gerald was confident he wouldn't disgrace himself should the necessity arise, but he would rather face a crusade again than getting laid by one of those primitive plebeians.

An insistent hand with lacquered, claw-like fingernails moved daringly into the direction of his crotch, and now Gerald _did_ shudder, while his amusement at Vryce's helpless wrath was gradually but surely replaced by an over-whelming urge to scream and tear at his braid. And by the temptation to rid the world of this platinum blonde horror incarnate once and for all. Alternatively knocking some sense into that infuriatingly honorable warrior knight didn't seem a bad way to get rid of his mounting frustration as well…

Following Vryce into this seedy excuse for a bar had seemed a sensible course of action, but right now Gerald was coming dangerously close to regretting his hormone fuelled decision. Oh, how he was looking forward to make his priest pay for subjecting him to this indignity! _His_ priest. The adept smiled slightly, for a short moment lost in thought.

Thanks to his adeptitude not all of his skills had been lost along with the taming of the fae, and by means of their special bond he was still able to read Damien's soul like an open book. The profound changes on Erna had left Vryce drifting and confused, but there was ample proof that Vryce was truly _his_, with his heart and soul. Damien just needed a slight nudge to put him into the right direction, and if a nudge wasn't sufficient to set that notorious thickhead onto the right path Gerald had no qualms to settle for a vehement push instead. Or, bluntly put, for a kick in the butt.

„Oh, getting excited, sweetie?" Gerald's shudder and involuntary smile had obviously led to some false assumptions, and, her stubby fingers crawling closer and closer to his private parts, the blonde prepared for the coup de grace. Gerald did the same, but not in the metaphorical sense.

„Take your hands off him, you slut! " Damien growled, his eyes flashing ferociously, and Gerald shivered with delight. His companion's primeval jealousy touched some atavistic streak deep down inside him that he usually kept strictly buried under a solid layer of impeccable cultivation. Except when he hunted, and at long last his chosen prey had relented to his subtle manipulations. Burning with a sudden flame of arousal the adept stared at Vryce, his eyes locked on the priest's flushed face and his tense muscles, poised for combat. To hell with cultivation when the prime male was about to fight for his mate!

"Listen, you fucking thug, why don't you let the young man make his own decisions and piss off? And leave the lady alone!" Somehow the grey-haired bloke had managed to stagger to his feet and had started to flail his fists, but Vryce stared him down with a fierce intensity that let the drunk shrink back into his seat and yell for another drink to steady his rattled nerves.

"Take your cloak, Gerald, we're leaving. Now!"

In spite of his breathless excitement Gerald felt his hackles rising by that imperious command. How could the priest dare to order him around like a little boy, prime male or not? He'd already led troops into battle nine hundred years before Vryce had even been a lusty twinkle in his father's eyes. Gerald decided to put his foot down and asked his blonde nemesis for a dance.

The two of them never made it to the dance floor. Getting wrapped in his cloak without further ado by an irate Vryce was an experience that hadn't made it on Gerald's agenda for the night, and to his dismay his jaw dropped by several degrees. "Will you walk on your own feet, man, or do I have to carry you out of this hell hole?"

Looking at the dangerous face glaring down on him Gerald obeyed in a huff and forced his legs to move, while Vryce's forbidding scowl made him feel absurdly like a reprimanded, naughty little boy.

"Have you finally lost your wits, priest? Release my arm! At once!" By now Gerald's mood was as dark as the night itself, and he cursed himself for his planning and scheming. Or, more precisely, he cursed the lamentable failure of his scheming. He had counted on Vryce's jealousy, and in that regard his plan had worked out nicely, but instead of being in control he had ended up being dragged through some dingy streets to an unknown destination, and the murderous look on the priest's face didn't bode well.

"Vryce!" No answer and the adept muttered a curse between gritted teeth. In this situation it might be advisable to spoil the priest with the correct use of his Christian name. Maybe Damien would never understand that by now "Vryce" had become a term of endearment to Gerald, more an intimate pet name than a mere impersonal surname.

"Damien, where are we going?"

"My place." The answer was curt, the tone devoid of any emotion, but at least it _was_ an answer, and Gerald's spirits lifted a bit. Although it was tough to admit the adept was very well aware that he wasn't infallible, had in fact made decisions that would make any sane soul blanch with horror, and there was a faint possibility that he had indeed made a mistake in harping on Vryce's feelings. After all Damien was a friend, a trusted and treasured friend who had saved him from certain doom several times, who had believed in the Hunter's redemption against all odds. _But __they __say__ '__all __in __love __is __fair__'_; Gerald thought wryly, just to wince with embarrassment.

Gerald's thoughts were abruptly cut off when Damien stopped in front of a shabby wooden house with two floors. The depressing building reeked of cabbage, poverty and too many unwashed inhabitants, and the adept wrinkled his nose in disgust, but wisely kept his mouth shut. Narrow stairs led to a drab corridor with four doors on each side, and after a bit of fumbling with his keys Damien opened the last one on the left and ushered his guest inside, but went downstairs again to brew some tea in the common kitchen.

The lightning of some candles revealed a diminutive chamber furnished with an ascetic plank bed, a table, a wobbly chair and a cupboard that definitely wouldn't survive the next quake. And that was it. No personal possessions embellished the room except a piece of cheap soap, a toothbrush and Damien's shaving kit on the small sink.

_The __cell __of __a __penitent!_ Gerald thought instantly, completely flabbergasted. Why in God's sacred name did Damien Vryce feel the urge to repent? Repent for what? For the sin of saving humankind from slavery? With rising dread Gerald realized that he already knew the answer. _For __allying __with __evil __incarnate __and __defying __the __wishes __of __the __patriarch,__you__fool. __The __man __you__…__hold __in __high __regard__…__atones __for __your __sins. __How __do you __feel __now, __you __clever __bastard?__" _

A book on the miserable table that threatened to keel over at any minute caught his attention, and Gerald stepped closer to read the title, glad for any distraction from his guilty musings. The value of this volume, beautifully bound in burgundy, genuine leather, exceeded that of the room's interior by far. A delicately crafted picture adorned the cover, depicting the figure of a young knight, dressed completely in white, flowing robes in pure revivalist style. His outstretched arms presented a holy scripture to hundreds of devoutly kneeling believers, but he had no face, no identity. Gerald didn't need to read the title, printed in golden letters, to know who the man was. The prophet's bible. His own bible, so laboriously composed for the benefit of his church and humankind many centuries ago.

A metaphoric switch deep down inside Gerald's soul was pressed down with a soft 'click', and all at once his legs were too weak to hold him upright. _Dear __God, __what __has __become __of __me?_ Being rejected by God back in the lands of the Undying Prince had indeed been a grievous experience, but his core had been shielded from the true extent of his pain by the Nameless Ones whose influence had prevented any true remorse. This was worse now, a hundred times worse.

With a blessing in disguise he landed on Damien's bed when his legs gave way under him. Clinging to the wooden frame in the absence of a comforting tree Gerald remembered with a trace of his usual sardonic humour that he was exactly where he had wanted to be in his silly erotic daydreams. A bitter laugh at the irony welled up inside him.

His mother had seen it coming, had been worried sick about her youngest son and his ordeal at the hands of her husband and Gerald's siblings. "Gerald, please, spare yourself becoming what they want!" He was still able to hear her pleading voice so clearly, but the seeds of darkness had already been planted in his soul, waiting patiently for an opportunity to grow. His mother's advice had fallen on deaf ears, and he had ruthlessly committed himself to his strive for power and control. He would never be weak again, would rise higher than any of those brutes could ever dream of, a promise he'd made to himself when he lay awake at night, hurting to much to find solace in sleep.

And where did his dreams of glory and revenge lead him? On the road to hell, literally. Although the monstrous Hunter persona had died on Mount Shaitan he was still a man who stooped low enough to toy with the one human being that harboured true feelings for him. Damien had very probably been sitting right here at this table, repenting some illusionary sins and mourning for the death of Gerald Tarrant, had, with regard to the dried droplets on the book's cover, even cried for his friend, while Gerald had been busy with buying a house, horses and some fancy clothes from his accumulated wealth. And busy with his usual scheming. Would he never learn?

Disgusted with himself Gerald tried to sit up. This had to end, once and for all. Vryce deserved something better, not the poor remains of a black soul that had sullied itself far beyond the hope of purification with unimaginable atrocities for a millennium. If he was lucky, or, more to the point, if Vryce was lucky, he would be gone without leaving a trace before the priest returned with his darn tea, and this time there wouldn't be a reunion. Maybe in time Damien's wounded soul would heal, and without Gerald's interference he might even find a way back to their church, the one and only place where he truly belonged. Yes, leaving Vryce to his own devices was a good decision, but his legs felt like lead, though not as heavy as his heart.

Gerald had just managed to sit up and was still waiting for the room to stop turning around him when the door burst open, revealing the priest with his tea. Damn! So much for the easy way out.

The bleak chamber wasn't graced with the luxury of a mirror, but watching Damien blanch when he faced his friend told Gerald enough. In a blink Damien put down his tray and rushed to his side, steadying him with an awkward hug. "What's wrong with you, Gerald? You look as if you've seen a ghost."

Vryce and his unnerving, infallible perception! Yes, he had indeed seen a ghost, the ghost of the young man he had once been, an ocean of time ago. Gerald felt like crying, but he pulled himself together, although it took some effort. He should leave now, he really should, but Damien's arms around him were so strong and comforting, and he needed comfort rather badly.

"Can you just, well, hold me for a minute?" The words slipped from Gerald's lips before he was able to stop himself, and the adept could have kicked his own butt for showing such a despicable sign of weakness. He sounded like a frightened child, not like the ancient being he actually was. But Vryce's glance just moved to the book on the table and back to his white face, the look in those hazel eyes softening visibly in the process. Damien had never been a fool, and without a further word he relented to Gerald's wish, patting his friend's back.

To the end of his days Gerald wouldn't be able to tell at which point Damien's purely soothing touches had changed to something more intimate. When his ragged breath had calmed down a bit he realized that Damien had started to caress his face while he whispered some gentle endearments, all those sweet nothings Gerald had always detested and that sounded so right now, so true. Sighing blissfully the adept let himself sink backwards onto the bed and pulled Damien down with him who obeyed without resistance. Both men were laying on their side now on the small bed, their bodies just a few inches apart, and silence descended on the chamber while they regarded each other solemnly.

All at once Vryce's hands were on the small of Gerald's back, slowly unravelling the long braid, and the black strands were lovingly arranged on the pillow, framing the young face like a black veil. "Dear God, you are so beautiful. Just let me look at you for a while", Damien murmured hoarsely, and the look of love and wonder on the rugged face caused a flutter in Gerald's stomach, a flutter that increased tenfold when trembling hands removed his clothes, layer by layer of velvet and silk, and a hot tongue glided inside his mouth.

Gerald's back arched, and with a hungry, throaty moan that surprised even him he thrust his pelvis forward, directly into Vryce's waiting hands. The first strokes were careful, as if he had been crafted from the most delicate porcelain, but soon enough his lover found exactly _that_ rhythm that left him panting breathlessly. Oh God, Damien's hand on his cock felt better than anything he had imagined in his wildest dreams. Almost delirious with naked want, his eyes closed, Gerald groped blindly for Damien's crotch to return the favour, but the priest caught his hand and stopped him.

"Shush, love, not now. Lay back and let me please you", Damien whispered, his voice low and tender. "I want to watch you when you come."

Maybe feeling Damien's longing gaze linger on him while he writhed on Vryce's bed in sheer ecstasy was the most intimate act Gerald had ever experienced in his long and colourful existence, and it could have been outright embarrassing if not for the fact that it was _his __priest_ whose eyes never left his face, registering every minute shiver, every rapturous groan. Damien was an exquisite torturer, taking him to the brink of orgasm and stopping at the last possible moment again and again until Gerald thought he couldn't bear the pleasure any longer. Evidently his lover had found his own interesting way to utilize the link.

By now Gerald had reached a level of arousal that made him completely oblivious to his surroundings. One after the other his senses had shut down, and his whole world had been reduced to his erection and Damien's hand on him, teasing him beyond the limits of endurance. If his lover intended to make him beg for his release he wouldn't have to wait much longer…

_Now, __beloved! _This time Damien didn't stop but intensified his stimulation, and Gerald clung to the priest while wave after wave of unbridled lust rolled through him, so intense that they were almost painful.

The first sound the adept heard when he slowly regained his wits was a loud knock, accompanied by an enraged voice, demanding a stop of "your bloody orgy in the middle of the night." Rather baffled he forced his eyes to open. A single candle didn't do much to light the room, but combined with the full moon shining into the dirty window it was enough to reveal Damien staring down on him with outright awe. "Does that happen often?"

"Does what happen often?" Gerald croaked, still not quite his old self again. His throat felt a bit raw, and on his tongue he tasted blood, Vryce's blood, not his own. To his alarm he still delighted in the unique taste and had to swallow convulsively.

"The candles melted when you climaxed!" Damien blurted out, pressing a handkerchief to his shoulder, and Gerald blinked. Oh, dear! Certain incidents _had_ happened before, a fact he had completely forgotten while he had wandered through the centuries with but a very slim chance to repeat the experience. With a slight smile Gerald remembered his first coupling with Gannon, a vigorous, experienced lover who must have had laid half of his court in his prime. It would have been hard to explain why the tent had collapsed on top of them without so much as a light breeze, but if you were the king's new favourite nobody dared to ask too many questions.

Another night came into Gerald's mind, his wedding night when he had taught the sixteen-year-old Almea to perform some very unladylike acts on him with her dainty tongue. She had been an eager pupil, and her achievements had cost his family several new painted-glass windows. His father had thrown one of his usual tantrums, and Gerald had felt obliged to pay for their replacement from his own pocket, but every cent had been worth it, even the fortune he had spent on the necklace for his young, mortified wife.

"Oh, _that_", Gerald replied with fake nonchalance after he had cleared his throat. "Not often, no. Only if it's a 'Ten' on the Richter scale…"

Damien glared at him, his face almost comical with its strange mixture of warring emotions that Gerald recognized as perplexity, pride and some faint traces of horror. "Any more little surprises in store for me?"

Well, that was a good question. Gerald had never been interested in dabbling with primitive sexual magic, had in fact desperately fought _not_ to lay waste to his environment during his first sexual experiences in adolescence. Nevertheless in the new world they had created seemingly not all of his skills had been lost, and if these involuntary outbursts of raw power could be tamed to his will some fascinating opportunities to regain access to the fae might arise.

Gerald eyed Vryce speculatively and, registering the impressive bulge in his lover's trousers, he pulled Damien on top of him, ready for a second round. Oh, yes, he definitely still had some very pleasant surprises in store for his favourite priest. With effort Gerald suppressed a mischievous chuckle. The night was not over yet, neither for them nor for their jarring neighbours.

The former Hunter was woken up by the morning sun shining into his face. Damien still slumbered at his side, his face peaceful and relaxed in sleep. When their nightly entertainments had finally come to an end the sky had already started switching from black to grey, and Gerald was still tired and sore in places he couldn't even mention. Not that he regretted what had happened between him and Vryce; in fact he wouldn't have missed a single second and hoped for many, many encores.

Looking down on the priest Gerald's emotions reached an almost painful intensity, an experience he dimly remembered from watching his sleeping children a millennium ago. So a part of his capacity to feel love or devotion had indeed been reborn along with his humanity on Shaitan, and he thanked God for that grace. Maybe the Lord in his wisdom would grant him some time to atone for his sins. And some time to make Damien happy. With a short prayer Gerald snuggled against his lover and went back to sleep.


End file.
